


Amhrán Duit

by Bazylia_de_Grean



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-04
Updated: 2015-02-11
Packaged: 2018-03-10 12:07:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 15,297
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3289778
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bazylia_de_Grean/pseuds/Bazylia_de_Grean
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>'The little teyrna sits on her throne. One slip in judgement, how will she go on. She will have to answer for the lives she takes. She will have to answer for the lives she saves. She will have to answer for the hearts she breaks.' A foolish rhyme they used to sing back home as children, one she did not understand back then, none of them did. She understands now, all too well.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

This is how the world moves on: pushed by whispers. She is a nobleman’s daughter, trained for diplomacy since her earliest years – history and etiquette and rhetoric, the art of giving speeches and gathering information and simply talking, and also the no less subtle but more ruthless diplomacy of poisons and daggers in the night, because her father wanted her to able to defend herself. Whispers is what she is familiar with, what she knows how to deal with.

He is nothing like that. He is a voice straightforward and brutally honest and loud, and sometimes, though rarely, he is just silence. She is skilled in reading people, she has been training that for her whole life, but she cannot quite see through him, and it perplexes her. There is something hiding behind his ready answers, something that clouds his gaze and wrinkles his brow when he thinks no one is looking – but she can merge with the shadows, and can move silently, light on her feet like a gust of wind, and she watches, and she knows.

She cannot quite see through him, but she likes what she can see. Oh, she has known many a courtly men in her life, but most of them are polite because they have to, because it is part of the game, because it is demanded of them; few are genuine at that. Blackwall is. His words are gestures are courtly, ones she has seen many times, but there is true kindness shining through.

Still, there is more to him than that, and a quiet whisper at the back of her mind, intuition, her good friend, keeps telling her that this will not end well, that she, always so wary, is suddenly too quick to trust. But he has already saved her life more times than she can count, and that has to be something. He has held her up when she was wounded and too weak to stand upright on her own. He keeps vigil beside her whenever night catches them on the road.

In her moments of doubt, which she shares with no one, he is beside her, telling her how their cause is worthy, how they are doing the right thing. How he admires her for being so honourable and noble.

For years she has shunned those feelings, history and duelling filling her time, and she felt happy that way. For years, she was too cautious to trust anyone that much. But now death hovers over them every day, and she feels she might lose too much if she doubts, and all the unused feelings come to life. She falls, and she falls hard.

But there is something pulling her to him so strongly she cannot resist. Maybe it is the way he calls her his lady, very courtly, a title she is used to, but he speaks the words differently, a sign of respect, not only a recognition of her stature. Maybe it is the way something shifts in his eyes when he looks at her, this wistfulness or perhaps sorrow that she cannot decipher. Maybe it is because he fights by her side, dedicated and loyal. She has always been fond of tales and ballads, and he is like those knights from songs, not without his little flaws, but otherwise perfect.

Too perfect, the whisper in her mind warns. She knows it is not right. But, far from her family and with the weight of the world pressing down onto her shoulders, she feels lost and lonely, and she ignores it.


	2. Chapter 2

When she finally goes to sleep, she still remembers their dance vividly, his arm around her, his hand around hers. She liked that. She would like that again.

Most of her companions and soldiers visit the tavern, and often they dance, but that is not what she wants. She wants him to hold her again, wants to whirl as the world moves from night into day and thus remain in place, in the peaceful bay of his arms.

In the morning, she reaches into one of her chests and takes out a gown, the only one she has here with her. The one she always takes with her. Foolish sentiment, perhaps, but no one can be wise all the time.

The gown is made of soft grey wool, perfect for the cold air of Skyhold. As it was perfect for the winters at Ostwick.

You have always loved those Grey Warden fairy tales, Gweneth said to her while visiting home on her name-day, and gave her that gown. Her older sister had spent a full year giving up her sparse hours of life otherwise filled up by Chantry duties, working on the gown each evening to carefully stitch the pattern. There are feathers embroidered on the material, on the back of the gown. Reaching forward to her shoulders when she puts it on.

For you to fly, little sister, Gweneth said back then.

In the evening, she puts the gown on. Just for luck, she thinks. The material has no smell other than her perfume – ah, vanity, vanity – but to her it will always bear the scent of incense, liked it smelled when she first put it on.

She finds Blackwall in the stables, working on the rocking chair. He smiles briefly when he sees her, turns for a moment to put the tools back onto the table... then freezes mid-motion, turns back towards her and stares. Just for a while. Then he coughs, glancing away briefly.

“You look very beautiful, my lady.”

“You flatter me, ser,” she replies with a smile. The gown is plain, but well, it is still a gown. And she feels different wearing it, a little more carefree. “How is the work going?” She comes closer, to examine the wooden griffin. It is a little crude, but adorable all the same.

“Well.” Blackwall takes a step back, gently brushes his fingers across her shoulders. “Feathers?”

“Wings, actually.” She smiles. “My sister made it for me. Said it’s griffin’s wings, for me to fly on.” She lets out a quiet laugh. “I loved all the Grey Warden tales when I was a child, and this was our private joke.”

His hand touches the wool again, stops at her shoulder. “Truly lovely.”

Fly, she thinks. For once. If the world is to end tomorrow, what is there to lose?

“The concept? The gown?” She looks up at him, smiling, gently touches the hand resting lightly on her shoulder. “Or the lady?”

“All of them,” he answers. He looks as if he wants to say more, but hesitates.

As the silence stretches between them, she becomes aware of the notes of a song floating from the tavern.

“I’m not a griffin,” she says softly, almost playfully. “I can’t fly.” She has almost forgotten how to be playful. “But if we danced, ser, perhaps I could pretend I’m floating in the air?” She looks into his eyes, slips her hand under his. “Surely another dance cannot be that terrifying?”

He moves at last, takes her hand in his, bows over it, brushing his lips across her knuckles. “More than you know, my lady,” he says quietly, his deep rough voice taking on a softer edge. As if what he said was a good thing. He pulls her to him gently, and fluently she moves into his arms, her hand settling on his shoulder as they begin to sway to the barely audible music.

There is a softer look to his eyes, too. Oh, she knows he is fond of her, and this – talking, flirting, this _something_ has been going on for some time, but now it is something different. Something deeper. Care. Love?

She cannot look away from his eyes. Blackwall’s gaze holds hers, and she can almost feel the air around them gaining substance, becoming dense, heavy. Heady.

She stumbles on something, probably one of the dog toys the mabari pups scatter all over Skyhold. Blackwall holds her a little tighter, and they shift closer, but when she is steady on her feet again neither pulls away. The music from the tavern is dimmed, and the whole scene feels slightly unreal, as if there was nothing in the world but the two of them.

She moves her head, just a little, and Blackwall moves his, and a moment later her temple is resting against his cheek. She breaths in slowly, trying to reign her emotions in, because she is supposed to behave like a leader and an adult woman, not a love-struck girl... Blackwall kisses her forehead softly. She leans into his touch, into his warmth. She moves her hand from his shoulder onto his chest, and his hand slides up from her waist to her shoulder blades. The hold of his other hand on her loosens and he shifts his palm to twine his fingers with hers.

The music goes down when the song is finished, and they stop, but do not pull apart. She is dimly aware she is trembling. Or maybe it is just her heart that makes her feel so, her foolish heart, fluttering wildly in her chest. This is like drowning, or falling, the sinking feeling in her stomach.

Blackwall kisses her temple; his beard tickles her skin a little. He kisses her cheek. Then, very gently, his lips brush the corner of her mouth, and she cannot breathe, and something tightens in her chest.

It takes a lot of effort to open her eyes. Blackwall is looking at her, caught under the same spell as she is. He raises his hand, brushes back a strand of hair falling over her face, giving her time to get used to his touch, then gently tilts her chin and kisses her.

For a moment her heart stops altogether, ready to burst from too much emotion. His kiss is soft, tender, but it has been so long since the last time that she has forgotten there was an empty space in her life, and suddenly it is filled, and she cannot quite wrap her mind around it, cannot deal with it. Her hand clutches at his shoulder, and she holds onto his palm, onto him.

When the kiss is over, Blackwall pulls away a little, but stays close, his nose brushing hers, his forehead touching hers. “Ah, my lady...”

She leans into him, lays both palms flat on his chest, rests her head on his shoulder. He puts his arms around her and holds her close, his fingers toying with her braid.

“What now?” she whispers. “What did it mean?” She calms down enough to draw from the same strength she uses as a commander. “What did it mean to you, ser?” she asks, her voice quiet but clear. Gently enough, but demanding an answer.

His warm hand cups the back of her head, and he presses a kiss into her hair. “Everything.” There it is again in his voice, the same note of sorrow she has sometimes seen in his eyes.

But she feels good in his arms, safe and protected and loved, and she ignores it.


	3. Chapter 3

He is there for her when she fears for her brother, Cadfan, a Grey Warden back in the Marches. He is there when she fears for her family’s safety. There is no need for words; it is enough if she just finds him in the stables where he works on the rocking chair, or if she knocks quietly and slips into his room, and one look is enough for him to walk over to her and put his arms around her, and just hold her. The simplest closeness, but for her also an intimacy, because she lets him see her at her most vulnerable.

He is there for her, in battle and out of it, strong, patient and tender, always so impossibly tender with her, so when he asks her to end whatever it is they have, she cannot let him go. She can only kiss him. And that seems to be the best argument she could have used, because he wraps his arms around her, and his kisses are like a current, pulling her in, and for a moment she dives.

When they part after what seems an eternity, and still entirely too short, they are both gasping for breath. She rests her hands on his chest, trying to put some space between them, because she doubts her ability to think clearly otherwise.

“No need to rush things, ser,” she whispers, a little breathlessly.

“Ah.” Blackwall straightens, pulling away slightly, but still keeps his hands on her waist. Very gently, though. “I apologise, my lady.” He smiles briefly. “I would say I’m sorry, but...”

“You don’t look sorry, ser.”

“Cannot say I am.” He looks at her, and the intensity and depth of feeling in his eyes scares her. But then he smiles, tenderly, and softly touches her cheek.

She turns into his touch, and he leans over to kiss her again, but this time it is different: a soft brush of lips, and then another, and then a deep, languid kiss, full of yearning. This time it is not a clash, but they simply melt into each other as his arm around her tightens, and she fluently shifts closer, her hand moving to the back of his neck, fingers tangling in his hair.

“I don’t know about the whole Herald thing,” he murmurs. “But I know that you, my lady, are my light.”

She sneaks her hands under his arms, wraps them around his waist and hides her face against his neck, and clings to him. He holds her, tenderly, protectively.

“I thought such noble knights only existed in fairytales,” she whispers.

His voice, when he answers, is sombre, though soft. “It takes a purpose to make a knight.” He smiles against her hair. “A curious thing that usually it means he needs a lady.”

He does not say he is such a knight. Her intuition screams at her to be cautious. She only holds onto him more tightly. Because he has just told her his reason for calling her his lady, and she cannot turn him down, no matter what her intuition screams at her. She is expected to save the world; she may as well try to save one more man, and maybe herself with him. This is a bad idea through and through, perhaps even has a fiasco written all over it already. But she cannot let go of him.

“It also takes a purpose to make a lady,” she whispers. “And, a curious thing, that usually means she needs a knight.”

For a moment, he freezes, and she catches it, the barely audible hitch in his breath. Then he pulls her closer, presses his lips to her hair. They stay like this for a moment longer. For eternity.

* * *

 

Sometimes, she puts on her gown instead of her usual attire. People are surprised at first, then get used to it, thinking it a whim. Partly, it is. And partly it is about those wordless talks she has been having with him even since that kiss, a wholly different level of dancing. Glances, smiles. The way his touch lingers when he helps her get on or off a horse, even though she does not need it, a soft brush of her hands across his chest as she steadies herself and thanks him for the assistance.

It has been long since the last time, almost ten years, and she has forgotten. Back then, it had been short-lived, a youthful infatuation cut short by the circumstances when the truth was revealed, and she thanked the Maker for it every day for years afterwards, once she had gotten over the feeling of being used and betrayed.

You will not use my daughter for your own advancement, viper, her father had said. She thanked him many times for it, once she understood, because initially it had been just her heart broken and hurting all over, and stubborn love blinding her eyes. It was a hard lesson, but one she learned for life.

She wonders, sometimes, whether she should not be more cautious now, because what does she really know of her companions? What does she know of Blackwall? But then, warily, her reason whispers that she has seen him shield her from danger so many times, her and their companions, has seen him risk his life for her, for them, for their cause. So, ultimately, she knows he would lay down his life for her, and that is no small thing. She also knows that under all the gruffness, there is much kindness, and she knows that with her, he is always tender. This is much more than she knew back then, the first time. She may not know who he is, who he was before the Wardens, but she knows his heart.

Yes, he never says much when she asks him about the Wardens. But Cadfan, the younger of her older brothers, now a Senior Warden – and still alive, she prays – in the Marches, has always avoided her questions with similar answers, seemingly making sense, but not really. Because Cadfan could never lie to her, not outright, and whatever he was hiding, she knew he was trying to shield her from that knowledge. Seeing the fondness in Blackwall’s eyes, she assumes it is similar with him.

The only thing she knows of are nightmares, and sometimes on the road she has seen Blackwall wake up during her watch, and then turn and pretend to fall asleep again. But his breath has always betrayed him.

She also remembers one more thing, and that is a reason she does not pry too much. She remembers Cadfan facing the man who had been supposed to become her fiancé, saying: ‘Just look at her again, and I will conscript you,’ and she remembers wondering what was it in the life of a Warden that her brother would use that argument as a threat.

Her minds keeps wandering across those memories as she combs her hair, before plaiting it anew for the night. In the soft light of fire and candles, in the soft woollen gown, sitting at her vanity and brushing her hair, she feels as if she were back home. A moment of silence and peace.

There are footsteps on the stairs, and too late she remembers she has asked Blackwall’s help in planning the soldiers’ provisions, because he seems to know more about soldiering than even Cullen. That is not something she has to do, but she wanted to understand, to see how much she remembers from her lessons back at Ostwick.

“My lady...” Blackwall begins, and goes silent, freezes. That was supposed to be a welcome, a good-evening, but his words end in a surprised intake of breath.

Despite the warmth of the room, she shivers, her heart hammering in her chest. When he looks at her like that...

Blackwall coughs, politely looks away. “I am sorry, I’d better...”

“Stay.” The word is out of her mouth before she has time to think, hurried, breathless. Slowly, in measured moves, she puts the comb away. Stands up. Walks over to him.

He stares at her, at the fair hair falling over her shoulders in waves. Raises his gaze to her face when she approaches him.

“My lady, whatever you’re looking for, I can’t offer it to you. I have nothing to give you. Nothing but the regrets that will come later...” he goes silent as she gently puts her fingers across his mouth.

“Then let them come,” she whispers softly.

“I’m not...” he tries, but her fingers press a little more.

“If what you’ve been doing for the Inquisition so far is not worthy, then I truly don’t know what is.”

He catches her hand, kisses it briefly. “There is no future for us,” he tries. But his eyes give him away; his resolve is crumbling.

“I don’t ask for a future,” she says softly, reaches up, cradles his cheek and for a moment he leans into her touch. “All I ask for is this night. All I will ask for tomorrow will be another.” She smiles at him, tentatively at first, then tenderly, warmly, openly, letting him her feelings written over her face. “One day at a time.”

Still, he hesitates. Seeing that words will not convince him, she tilts her head up, leans over, brushes her lips across his. His arm comes up around her as he kisses her back, the kiss first tender and lingering, then deepening slowly.

“This night, my lady,” he breathes against her lips. “And any other night or day you will asks of me.”

He touches her hair, sinks his fingers into it, cradles the back of her head as he kisses her again. In a flurry of kisses they somehow walk over to her bedroom, their feet moving almost as if they were dancing.

He promises her nothing more, and she asks nothing more of him. One day, one night at a time. But he professes his love for her, first in words, a little clumsy but earnest, then by fervent kisses, and she returns his confessions word by word and kiss by kiss and touch by touch.

She has forgotten. She has forgotten it takes love to fly. But as he holds her and she clings to him, she remembers.


	4. Chapter 4

_“One day I’ll be a teyrna, Papa! I’ll have power and judge people like you do!”_

_“I hope you will never have to, Luned. I pray to the Maker you never will.”_

She remembers the profound sadness in her father’s eyes when he heard that, can still feel the weight of his gentle hand on her head. A bitter laughs escapes her. Look, Papa, she thinks, I have power now, I have to judge people, I have to judge the man who...

She cannot do that. How is she supposed to judge a man whom she trusted, whom she kissed, whom she fell asleep and woke up with, whom... She cannot.

And there it goes, her being a lady. She has no knight. He was never a knight. And she guessed all along, and let it be. She cannot even truly blame him for not telling her, for fearing he would not live up to her expectations. Because he did not. He does not. And yet he does, because to go from that to becoming the man she met, the man who fought at her side... Just how much can people change, she wonders. Has he changed? Will he accept death, as people demand, though no one says it aloud to her face yet? Does she have a right to take away his chance of atonement?

“Inquisitor.” Leliana slips into the war room quietly. “It’s late. You should...”

She looks at her advisor. “Take me to him,” she orders in her commanding voice, not loud, but clear. The voice that makes people _listen_.

* * *

 

When they get to the dungeons – putting him here was right, but does not feel so, not to her – she glances over at Leliana. “What happens in this cell stays in this cell. Wait outside.”

Leliana is displeased. Blackwall is mildly surprised.

“You shouldn’t,” he mutters.

“ _You_ will not tell me what I should do. Not you, of all people.”

He turns away and hangs his head, as if she slapped him. There is a quiet click of door being closed as Leliana leaves, and then silence. Her breathing, even, but only barely. His breathing, deep, exhales coming out like sighs.

There are many things she wants to say. How could you, why had you done it, why did you not tell me, why, why, why, a thousand whys.

“You did not trust me enough to tell me,” she says softly, almost gently. “You did not trust me to believe in you.” Suddenly, as it dawns on her, trust seems the most important issue. At least right this moment, because, among other things, this is _personal_.

“I was afraid of disappointing you,” he replies finally. “And in the end I still did.”

“Has it been a lie, too?” she asks quietly. “Has it all been just another lie?” She knows it was not, and yet she is not certain. Right now, she is not certain of anything, but she must be by the morning, because a life is at stake...

“No.” His voice is hoarse. “No. It’s all... It... It’s all been real.” He looks up at her. “But you’re not going to judge me based on this answer.”

“No,” she says, distracted. “Not you...” She will not judge him based on that answer; she will judge _herself_.

“My lady...”

“Don’t! Just don’t, please.” She looks into his eyes. “There are some who want you hanged. And they demand I make that decision. So please, don’t.”

For a long time, the only sound in the cell is the one of her footsteps against the stone floor.

“I am sorry,” Blackwall says finally.

She stops and turns to look at him. He watches her, sombre but sincere, she can tell. After everything, she is able to tell how he looked when he lied, and he is not lying now.

“What would you do?” she asks quietly.

“What?”

“If I let you go.”

He stares at her in disbelief. “Let me go?” he asks, in a voice hollow like a freshly-dug grave.

“What would you do?”

“I... don’t know.” He is at a loss. “Try to make a difference, I suppose. To do something good.” He pauses. “Help the Inquisition, if that... if you...”

She walks up to the bars of his cell. His eyes are as she remembers. Anguish. Remorse. Contempt and hatred, for himself. And love deep as the Waking Sea, love for _her_. She closes her eyes, her fingers gripping the metal bars tightly, so tightly that her hands are trembling.

His hands envelop hers, warm, just as she remembers. “Don’t... Not on my account...” He touches her cheek, then her chin, so that she would look at him. “Don’t worry for me. I’m not worth it.”

She wants to contradict him, wants to say she does not worry for him, but the her throat feels too tight for words. Because she does worry for him, because she does not want him dead, because... Oh, Maker, why had he...

His thumb brushes her cheek tenderly. “Don’t waste your tears on me.” He smiles at her sadly. “I’ll only get what I deserve. It is just.”

“No. No, it isn’t. Not for me. I’ve done nothing to deserve losing a friend and...” She cannot finish the sentence. “Once was enough. I refuse to go through that again.” She moves away abruptly, wiping the tears off her face and then hugging herself and rubbing her arms, because all of a sudden she feels cold. “But I have no choice.”

His eyes are on her, all sorrow and tenderness. “You’re doing the right thing,” he says softly, trying to soothe her.

“It’s not right.” She swallows, tries to regain control of her voice. “Two wrongs added together do not make a right.” She turns abruptly and walks away, quickly, her boots thumping against the stone, she walks past the door, past Leliana, past the guards, hurrying back to her room. Leaving her heart behind her, to wither in his cell.

She should give him to the Wardens; it would be a punishment, she knows, for she still remembers her brother’s words clearly. That is no less that Blackwall – _Rainier_ deserves.

You deserve it, she thinks bitterly and sadly, you deserve twisting your dreams and ideals into a punishment, Maker, this is so very, very fitting. But I, she thinks, I am just trying to sort out the mess and stop the world from crumbling, and I have not done anything to be forced to sentence you to that, you are the one to be punished, not I.

She loved this man – part of him – all of him? – all of him as he is now, not who he used to be, perhaps even loves him all the more for all his struggles, for how hard he has fought to change. She still loves him. Maker have mercy on her, she still loves him. And tomorrow, if she gives him to the Wardens, she will take away the only dream that has been sustaining him and will shatter it, and then give it back to him, twisted and destroyed. And perhaps his hands will hurt and bleed, pierced by the shards, but so will hers.

He lied to her, but that is the least important of things. It is important to her, but she cannot let that cloud her judgement.

People demanded punishment for him, and will demand it again, and justly so. But then something happened and he has tried so very hard to change. He regrets, he confessed what he had done, and that required no small amount of courage. He saved her life so many times she has lost count. He stood beside her. He _loved_ her, loved her so much he decided to confess. He still loves her. And, Maker have mercy on her, she cannot suddenly just stop loving him.

She falls to her knees beside the bed and weeps and prays and then weeps again. Mercy, she whispers with parched lips, mercy. She will have to judge him, it is demanded of her, but she does not want to be the one to do that. Because, justice or no, whatever she decides, she will hate herself forever afterwards.

* * *

 

“He asked for a chance to atone, fighting for the Inquisition as he had been doing before.” Her voice is clear and even, and firm. “I will grant him that chance.”

There are gasp of shock and grunt of protest and hums of approval among people that are gathered in the hall, but she has eyes only for one. Blackwall – _Rainier_ , she has to keep correcting herself - _he_ is looking at her with a strange expression on his face, part disbelief, part... hope? _Hope_? Why should he hope, for what? Her forgiveness? She was not the one he hurt, and therefore whatever forgiveness he seeks, it is not hers to give.

But then she hears it, murmurs rising to a continuous hum. Single voice raising above that, crying it is an outrage... She has had enough.

“Silence!” She steps forth, looks at the displeased faces. “You hail me as a Herald of Andraste when you need me to protect you lives and lands, but you forget that when my judgement is not to your liking?! I didn’t choose that title, _you_ gave it to me! So now listen!” She should not be doing this, she knows, but once she started she cannot stop herself. Listen to the truth, she thinks, listen, you, because I know some of you are no better than him, just have not had your feet slip yet, no, even _worse_ than him, because you do not regret your crimes, you take pride in them. “This man,” she points at Blackwall – Rainier, “this man has been fighting for the Inquisition for months. Has saved lives, has helped. So if he wants a chance to atone, and he has already proved himself, why should a Herald of Andraste refuse him that? How could a Herald of Andraste do that? If Archon Hessarian, the man who ordered Andraste’s execution, could have converted and atoned, then how can any penitent sinner be denied such a chance?” Thank you, Papa, she thinks, for teaching me how to speak and how to make people listen, and for teaching me the ability to draw arguments from reason rather than from the heart, because my heart is a mess right now. “So if you’d rather he died at the gallows than put his life and sword between you and the Fade demons... Then by the Maker, go fight yourselves or learn to live with it.” She steps back, calms down, lets the fire go out. “There will be no more judgements today.”

Slowly, as the room empties, she steps down the stairs, feeling weary. Maker, this is difficult. Her chamber seems miles away.

When she walks past Blackwall – Rainier – oh, Maker, she does not even know how to call him anymore – when she walks past him, he moves forward, opens his mouth to speak...

“Don’t!” she cuts him off before he says a word. “Don’t. Not now.” She notices the iron on his wrists. “Maker’s sake, Cullen, have him unchained!” she snaps, then turns and leaves.

She still cannot quite wrap her mind around what happened, and what had happened in the past, what _he_ had done, how could he have... She puts a hand to her mouth to stifle a sob. The whisper at the back of her mind is quiet, surprisingly, and she is grateful for at least that smallest mercy.


	5. Chapter 5

She is standing by the open window, hugging herself against the cold. Looking over snow-covered mountain tops. Perhaps, if she tried hard enough, she could see the towers of Ostwick.

Somehow, she misses the sound of footsteps, and notices someone is in the room only when there is quiet knocking.

“Not now, Cullen! I’ve told you...” she turns, irritated, and freezes, all energy draining out of her.

Blackwall is standing on the threshold, respectfully waiting for her permission. “My lady...”

“Don’t!” she interrupts, not wishing to hear those words from his lips ever again. Wishing to hear them whispered against her skin just once more. “It’s ‘Herald’. And I would be most grateful if this could wait, because I’m in no mood for talks.”

He shakes his head. “You will never be in a mood for this talk. And neither will I. But it has to be done.”

She sighs. “What do you want from me?”

“Nothing. That’s not... I...” he stumbles over the words, clearly at a loss. “I only wanted to apologise. For lying to you. For not being who I made you believe I was. I am sorry.” He is, he regrets, it is evident in the way he is looking at her, sorrow and guilt and remorse, and no hope this time. “I cannot take it back.” He hesitates. “Still, were it possible, I would. I would have never known your love, but I would have never hurt you as I did.” He turns to leave, his moves heavy, tired.

“Wait.” The voice is hoarse, and is she did not feel her lips moving she would have believed it was someone else’s. She looks away, searching for words, but can find none. When she looks up at him again, he is still standing by the stairs, waiting patiently.

What is she supposed to tell him? That everything will be fine? It would be a blatant lie. Perhaps it will get a little better one say, easier, simpler, but it will take a long time.

What should she say? That she wakes up at night sweaty and shivering, wakes up from nightmares in which she sees them making love and then notices his hands are covered in blood, those hands that have... Or from others, in which she finds herself in Val Royeaux, but she is too late and there is no one to save, there is nothing but a lifeless body dancing on the rope as the winds blows, and the wind sounds like wailing... Should she tell him she wakes from both those nightmares frightened, for two entirely different reasons, and yet for one, because ultimately it is all down to: I have loved you, Maker have mercy, I still love you and that is why it hurts so much...

“I wanted to tell you I regret. Just that.” He sighs quietly, but she hears it. “I don’t ask your forgiveness because I don’t hope for it. I wouldn’t forgive myself. I _can’t_ forgive myself.”

She inhales the cold evening air deeply. “Do you know what I felt back there, passing the sentence?”

“I tried not to think of it.” His voice is full of sorrow. “And failed.”

“You were my trusted friend, my loyal companion, my knight, my...” She swallows. “You were the man I loved. Whose ideals and dreams I admired. Who struggled so much to leave the world a little better...” She turns away, closes her eyes, hoping to stop the tears from falling. “And then suddenly you weren’t, but still were. Maker’s sake, I had to judge you... Judge! When a few nights before we had...”

Warm, so very familiar hands touch her shoulders. “I _wanted_ to die there. But you gave me a second chance, to live, to change, to do something good.” He pauses, squeezes her shoulders gently. “I will never forget that.”

He is not who she thought he was. He is more, in both the worst and the best of ways. He could not change the past, but tried to make up for it. She manages to make no sound, putting her hand to her mouth, but shudders as a sob bubbles up her throat.

“My lady, don’t...” He turns her towards him gently. “Please, don’t.” His hands cup her face, his thumbs brush the tears off her cheeks.

But more tears flow. Now that she has started crying it seems she will not be able to stop, because it seems her heart finally bursts and all the emotions contained there flood her, and she has to let them out in tears least she drowns.

His lips brush her cheek as he kisses away a tear, then another. He kisses her closed eyelids. Follows the trail of tears down to the corner of her mouth. She sobs. He kisses her lips, gently, querying, soothing, trying to erase her worries.

She drowns. She grasps his tunic, her fingers digging into the material, gasps for air. Does not protest when he kisses her again, with reverence and passion and love and despair, kisses her as if she was his redemption. But she is not. Only he himself can be that.

When their lips part, she shakes her head. “This... This solves nothing..."

“I am sorry... I shouldn’t have...”

She turns away from him. “Just go. Please. Don’t make it more difficult than it already is.”

Obediently, he leaves. She wraps her arms around her, feeling cold.

Later, she calls for mulled wine, and curls up in bed, under the covers. But neither wine nor the blankets can warm her up.


	6. Chapter 6

She does not know what to do, how to move on. In the end, she set to doing what she always does when in doubt: writes her father. Sometimes it is enough to just put her thoughts on paper for them to clarify, and she burns some letters instead of sending them. This one, however, is of the other kind, when closing thoughts into words does not help, but only makes everything more complicated.

What do you do with a hero turned villain? And what do you do with a man who did a terrible thing, but then turned into a hero, into a knight out of legends, always trying to do the right thing?

Did she make the right choice letting him go free, to serve the Inquisition, because condemning a man who can save hundreds would have been a waste, a sin? She was not the one hurt most so forgiveness is not hers to give, but what about punishment? Are guilt and remorse enough of a punishment, is trying to do the good thing a good enough atonement?

* * *

 

_Papa,_

_I feel I’ve made a terrible mistake. Perhaps more than one. Perhaps the mistake is not even what I think it is. I... I’m lost._

_I’m sorry. I feel I shouldn’t even be sending this and worrying you needlessly. I’m fine, so tell Mama not to fret, and please give my best wishes to Cadfan._

_Love,_

_Luned_

* * *

 

The wait takes weeks, and those are perhaps the hardest weeks in her life. She is trashing about inside, feeling helpless and lost, and duty is no consolation, though she pays it as much attention as ever. But what is left of her heart is in her evening prayers, whispered over and over, because this is beyond her experience, beyond her comprehension, she is out of her depth, and the leftovers of her heart ache, ache...

So when the letter arrives at last, she silently thanks the Maker that this is one of those days when they are all only waiting for things to happen, and retires to her room early, clutching the letter to her chest. When she unfolds the parchment, her father’s familiar handwriting is sharp like the angles of his wrinkled face, but she can imagine the soft, caring look in his eyes, and the soothing, concerned tone of his voice.

* * *

 

_Daughter,_

_I cannot help you more if you do not wish to tell me more, and I guess you do not tell me more not to worry me, which in turn only makes me more worried. Such is the way of parents and children, I guess, ones hiding things from the others not to worry them._

_Luned, whatever it is, there must have been a reason for the choice you made. What was it? Is it still relevant? Making an error in judgement doesn’t always mean the choice is wrong. Not making that error doesn’t always mean the choice is right. And sometimes it seems there’s no right choice and you have to trust your heart. You’ve always trusted you heart, Luned. And I’ve always trusted your choices. So perhaps there is a valid reason for what you did._

_I wish I could help you more, Luned, but I fear I can’t. And perhaps you are safe and in good health, but one look at your letter is enough for me to know that you are definitely not fine._

_We are all well here, and Cadfan is healing. We all miss you._

_Maker guide you, daughter, where I cannot._

_Love,_

_Father_

* * *

 

“Thank you, Papa,” she whispers into the empty room.

The letter reminded her of something. She wishes to forget all that she has learnt, but she needs to think the matter over again.

She was drawn to Blackwall – Rainier – _him_ – because he was a good and honourable man. And kind, even if a little gruff. And caring. And strived so hard to do some good.

And then it turned out he is not the man she thought him to be... Only he _is_ , perhaps even more than she thought him to be, because he had to strive more, to try harder. Nothing will ever undo what he had done... but he took full responsibility for it. It took him long to do that, true, but in the end he did. Since then, he has saved her life numerous times, and not only hers, he has helped so many, and has strived so hard... It will not undo the past, but it _has_ to count.

He tried to become a better man, and then tried even harder, for _her_ , and ultimately he _has_ become a better man. He is not Rainier anymore, he is Blackwall. And if she turned him down, what would it tell about her? Giving someone a second chance and believing in atonement was much easier in theory, when _personal_ was not involved, but after she gave him that chance publicly, after she forced to people accept that, after she officially accepted his wish to atone as genuine, if she turned away from him after all that, what would it make her? She accused him of having lied to her and did so rightfully, but if she turned away from him now, would it not make her words rubbish without value?

He had the courage to admit to his crime and accepted death as penalty. Does she, having freed him, have the courage to live up to her decision?

Her head spins, because it is still too fresh and there is too much emotion, but she has to get through with it. She has already waited too long.

It will not be easy. But was she not the one to tell him good things never are?

Responsibility, she thinks, you taught me that, Papa. Responsibility. One is responsible for the lives one takes. One is responsible for the lives one saves.

_The little teyrna sits on her throne. One slip in judgement, how will she go on. She will have to answer for the lives she takes. She will have to answer for the lives she saves._ _She will have to answer for the hearts she breaks._ A foolish rhyme they used to sing back home as children, one she did not understand back then, none of them did. She understands now, all too well.

There is a quiet knock, and then a creak of the door being opened.

“My lady,” speaks a beloved voice, but breaks off immediately. “I am sorry, I shouldn’t have...”

She turns, and looks at him, takes in his face, his anguished eyes. There has been no peace in his eyes ever since he returned, in a different way than before. She realises, for yet another time, that he truly loves her, and that for all his lies, his love has always been genuine. He tried to spare her the pain; did it all the wrong way and in the end it solved nothing, because lies rarely do, but he did it out of love. He did not want her to be disappointed in who he really was, because he was ashamed, because he feared she would turn him down – not quite an unreasonable fear – and while it does not excuse him, she can understand why he did what he did. Sometimes the wrong choices can take to all the right places...

“Blackwall,” she whispers. It is an affirmation.

“That...” he looks away. “That is not my name.”

He will not look at her, so she crosses the room to stand in front of him. “It is.” She touches his cheek, her hand trembling as much as her heart does. “It is who you are now.”

He looks up, into her eyes. “After what I had done...”

She shakes her head, feeling the words resonate with her, ring true to her as she speaks them. “Nothing will undo it,” she says quietly; it is something that they both know, a shadow that will always be there lurking in the corner. “But you left that man in the past. You are different now.”

He leans into her touch, closing his eyes, and smiles bitterly. “You say that as if you believed it.”

“Because I do.” And she discovers that yes, she _does_ believe that. Because she has seen him as that other man from the beginning.

She frames his face with her hands. His past will not disappear, no matter what she says or what he does, but maybe one day they can leave it in the past, just a little...

She raises to her tiptoes and kisses him. “You were who you were,” she whispers against his lips. “You are someone else now. The man you’ve tried to be. The man I fell in love with.” She kisses him again; he does not respond, but his hands grip her waist like a lifeline. “A good man.”

He kisses her then, kisses her like a man dying of thirst in a desert drinks from a well. She puts her arms around him, holds him. He embraces her. They cling to each other, because with so much emotion there is no room left for more words.

His lips gently brush hers, once, and again, and she kisses him back equally... timidly? Hesitantly? It is difficult to find words to even describe it. Their kisses linger, then deepen, ever so slowly, and they melt together, stumbling a little at first, because so much has happened between them that it cannot just evaporate and vanish in a matter of moments. But slowly it dims, as they mend the cracks and smooth the jagged edges out.

A few moments later she takes his hands in hers and leads him to her bedroom. They have made love before, but this time is different. This time, as she takes off their clothes and looks into his eyes, she knows he is bare before her, body and scars and heart and soul. Now she sees him as he is and, even though it is and always will be difficult, she accepts him.


	7. Chapter 7

She wakes up feeling cold. He is next to her, sitting on the bed with his face in his hands, the covers pooling at his waist. Another nightmare.

She wants to say something, but does not know how to call him, so in the end she just reaches out and touches his arm.

He looks at her, curls his fingers around her palm, presses a kiss to her hand. And then moves it away and drops it.

“Don’t comfort me,” he says quietly, his voice gruff. “It wouldn’t be right.”

She knew it would not be easy, and it is not. It is difficult and bitter, and it will always remain so. No happily ever after, just hard work. Like putting together broken glass or a shattered mirror – they both will get their hands cut on the shards.

“How about you comforted me?” she asks softly, reaches for his hand, then lies down, not letting go.

Surprisingly, he follows without protest, lying down next to her, letting her wrap his arm around her. Hiding his face in her hair.

For a long time, neither speaks. Then she starts brushing her fingers across his in gentle, soothing motions. He sighs, breaths in the scent of her hair.

The silence between them is not quite uncomfortable... But it is dense, tight. She wishes she knew what to talk of. Not the past, certainly...

“What are you going to do, once this Fade breaches mess is over?” she asks quietly.

“I... I don’t know.” He sighs heavily. “Perhaps I’ll figure out who I am by then. It would help, I guess.”

She keeps stroking his hand softly, waiting.

“I’ve thought of joining the Wardens. For real, for a change.” He gives a dry chuckle, but it is bitter.

“They could use someone like you. Someone who believes in their ideals of old.”

His hand slips out from under hers, only to envelop her palm a moment later.

“But that would mean not being with you.”

She shakes her head. “It’s not about me. It’s about you.” She moves her hand so that it is on top of his again. “You could go to Jader. Or even to Ferelden.” Where no one knows your past and you could start anew, she thinks, but does not voice it. Still, the thought hangs unsaid between them, because he thinks the same. “They say that when the weather’s good, you can see Ostwick from Soldier’s Peak.” She twines her fingers with his. “And the journey by ship isn’t long.”

His fingers curl around hers. “And is that what you want? Meeting each other only seldom, once a few months, a few years?”

She already knows the answer to that. “I want you to find what you’re looking for. Yourself. I accept it might not be at my side.”

They fall silent. He does not deny that what she suggested is a possibility, and it is good. It means he will not lie to her again. And she does, though not really answering his question, does not deny she would rather see him more often.

Once, she wanted a husband, children, a peaceful life. But she is not certain it will ever be possible with him.

She will have to write home. The youngest daughter can be forgiven a lot... But if learning about his past was difficult to her, who loves him, will her family ever... Still, she should write Papa. She will not know the answer otherwise.

Blackwall kisses her shoulder gently. “Tell me of Ostwick,” he asks quietly.

She talks to him of home, describing the city, her family’s castle... She hears his breathing even out and then deepen as he falls asleep. For once, he seems peaceful, and she welcomes the illusion.

* * *

 

She is perched on the chair, writing a letter to her father. It... it is difficult, even more difficult when she cannot say it to his face and has to close it in words, for words cannot look at him like she would, cannot convince him like her eyes would. But she has to try, because if she waits too long with this, it will only get worse in the end, and her parents deserve to know the truth.

Warm hands touch her arms. “Good morning,” Blackwall whispers, nuzzling her cheek. He kneels behind the chair, then he moves her braid out of the way and begins pressing languid kisses across her shoulders, his breath and lips warm on her skin even through her nightgown. “Working so early?” he asks between kisses. “Inquisition matters?”

She sighs quietly. “Private matters.”

He stops, freezes.

“I’m writing to my father,” she explains softly. Afraid of how he will react.

His hands slip down and she catches them, puts them on her waist, wrapping her fingers around his palms. He does not protest, but he is not holding her.

“No father would ever allow his daughter...”

She squeezes his hands. “You don’t have to fear.” She hopes she sounds more certain than she feels.

He moves at last, his hands moulding to the contours of her waist. “You are anxious.”

Yes, she is. If she could just meet with Papa and tell him everything in person, meet Mama and look into her eyes, it would be easier. But parchment cannot carry that much feelings.

“Your family will not approve.” This is not a question; it is a simply stated fact.

Except that it is not a fact, just a possibility. And not even more probable than others. Or so she keeps telling herself.

“My parents brought me up to be the woman I am now,” she says quietly, turning towards him, resting her temple against his.

“You have great faith in them.” He still sounds doubtful.

“Yes. I also have faith in you,” she adds softly. “And in myself. And I have faith that somehow everything will turn out fine.” She smiles briefly. “It seems I’m a woman of great faith, mhm?”

Blackwall huffs quietly. It sounds almost like a short-lived laughter. “Yes. Yes, that you are.”

She turns in his embrace some more, brushing her lips across his. He leans in, kisses her. When words fail, which happens all too often nowadays, this is all they have.


	8. Chapter 8

She is sitting on the bed, legs curled underneath her, reading a book of poems – just another sentimental trinket, link to the past, calmer days – when he comes to her rooms after a day of training the recruits, fresh from the bath, his hair still damp. She turns to him, opens her mouth to speak... She does not know how to call him. ‘Blackwall’ does not seem intimate enough. There is his past name, but she is not certain if he would ever want to hear it again...

“My lady?” he asks.

“It’s...” She gets up, letting the book slide from her grasp onto the bed, starts pacing. “Maker, it’s awkward.”

He laughs, without merriment. “As are many things about us, I guess. To put it mildly.”

She stops beside him, puts her hands on his shoulders, leans closer, rests her forehead against his. It is easier to talk when she can feel him beside her, warm and solid. And sometimes she feels afraid – foolishly – that he will disappear again, and she has to hold him tightly to prevent that.

“I’d like to have a name to call you by.”

“I thought we’ve agreed on ‘Blackwall’.”

“Yes, but...” She closes her eyes, inhales. “Something more personal. Like a first name. If it’s alright with you.” Another deep breath. “I know your past name, but I’m not certain if you...”

“No,” he interrupts harshly. “Not that.” He sighs. “Please,” he adds, in a softer voice. “I will never forget that name, nor what comes with it, but please, don’t call me that. Anything but that.” He leans into her. “I don’t want to be that man anymore.”

She pulls away, takes his face in her hands, makes him look into her eyes. “You’re not.”

For all his confidence on the battlefield, he seems lost now. “Then who am I?”

“You are who you choose to be.”

“Choices...” He laughs bitterly. “I’ve never been good at choices.”

“There’s been at least a few ones that have been good.” She brushes back a strand of his hair.

It is difficult, and she wonders if it will ever get easier. If it _should_ get easier. Their love feels so odd now, both stronger than ever and very brittle. It is difficult, but she does not want to shatter it. Because, strange as it may seem, peculiar as it may seem, sometimes, when she was not certain what to do, he was her moral compass. Reminding her of the ideals, of what was right and good... She quells the urge to laugh hysterically.

He touches her temple. “You’re tired.”

“A bit,” she agrees. “I think I’m going to lie down for a while.” She is probably also going to cry just a little.

He scoops her up, carries her those few steps to the bed, lays her down gently. Then, unasked, he settles next to her, and holds her close. She keeps her breathing calm and even and lets the tears stream down her face, hoping he would not notice.

“I am sorry,” he whispers into her hair. “I am sorry that you cry because of me.”

She holds onto his hand tightly. How will they go on, she wonders. It is exhausting for both of them, though for different reasons. But neither seems able to let go.

“I’ve been thinking of what you said,” he says quietly when she calms down. “I could go to Jader. Or even to Ferelden.” His hand covers hers gently. He is always gentle with her. “They say that when the weather’s good you can almost see Ostwick from Soldier’s Peak.”

“Is that what you want? To join the Wardens?”

“It feels right.” He sounds determined.

She nods. “I could go to Highever,” she ponders. “Tell Fergus Cousland of his sister’s fate. They’re my cousins,” she explains. “Distant, but still.” She pauses. “I could take a ship home from there.”

“I won’t leave before this mess is over.”

“If you’d rather go without me, just please say goodbye this time.” She sighs, already regretting her words. “I’m sorry. That was a low blow.”

“I deserved it.”

“Still, a low blow.”

“I’m not certain about the Wardens yet. Just... thinking.” His lips move against her hair as he makes an effort to smile. “Can’t leave without knowing my name, anyway.”

She freezes, surprised, then turns to him. “Do you really mean what I thi-...”

He puts a finger across her lips, silencing her. “If I’m to carry a new name, I want _you_ to give it to me. To have something yours with me when we part.”

She looks into his eyes. He kisses her. She kisses him back. This, at least, is simple. No words, just emotions. And these, however confused, can be better conveyed by touch and closeness, and the changing rhythm of two breaths merging into one.


	9. Chapter 9

She wakes up silently, without trashing or crying out, just opens her eyes suddenly, not even remembering the dream that woke her. He is sleeping beside her, his arm curled around her, his chest moving in rhythm with his even breaths... That peculiar rhythm of his breaths which betrays that he is only pretending to be asleep, in order to let her sleep peacefully.

“Can’t sleep?” she asks quietly.

“You neither?”

It if was not for the reasons which rob them of their rest, they would have laughed. As it is, she just gives a huff, and he snorts quietly. It seems that ever since the revelation, they are afraid of laughing, not certain if they are even allowed to laugh anymore. Smiles, yes, sometimes, but never laughter. It will take time to get back there.

“Tell me of Ostwick,” he asks in a murmur, as he often does when they cannot sleep, or when his nightmares wake them.

She puts her hand over his, her fingers stroking his knuckles softly. “I’ll tell you a story,” she offers, because a thought strikes her, and now she cannot get it out of her head. It would be fitting, she thinks, even despite the differences.

“As my lady wishes.” He kisses her shoulder, as he often does.

“It was one of my favourites.” She smiles, and it is audible in her voice. “That’s where my name comes from.”

“I’m all ears,” he assures.

“And a beard,” she mutters, as the said beard tickles her neck.

They both laugh out, a quiet, startled laugh that ends as suddenly as it begins, as if they both were embarrassed about it. But it is a start.

“A long time ago, in Ferelden or perhaps in the Free Marches, there lived a lady named Eiluned. She was a daughter of an important lord and, as tales have it, she was also very beautiful.

“In her father’s land, there lived a knight, Eideard. He was not a hero, nor a wealthy nobleman, just a most average knight you can imagine. One day, he saw the lady and, as tales have it, he fell in love with her.

“But she would not accept him. ‘Prove you worth to me,’ she said.

“So the knight donned his armour and strapped his sword and shield to his back, saddled up his horse and left his home. He roamed the world, and made a fortune. And when he returned, he laid it at the lady’s feet.

“But still she would not accept him. ‘I have lands and wealth, so I do not need yours,’ she said, and the knight left, saddened by her refusal.

“But he did not give up, and again he donned his armour and strapped his sword and shield to his back, saddled up his horse and left his home. He roamed the world, and earned himself a title and an estate. And when he returned, he laid it all at the lady’s feet.

“But still she would not accept him. ‘I have a castle and my own title, so I do not need yours,’ she said, and the knight left, saddened by her refusal.

“But he did not give up, and again he donned his armour and strapped his sword and shield to his back, saddled up his horse and left his home. He roamed the world, and helped the helpless, and people across the realms blessed him and hailed him as a hero. And when he returned, he laid his fame and great deeds at the lady’s feet.

“And still she would not accept him. ‘You have done great deeds, but you are not the only hero of the realm,’ she said, and the knight left, heartbroken.

“But at the threshold of the castle he recalled something, and turned, and went back to the lady. She was surprised to see him again, but he had been trying hard to win her favour, so she let him speak.

“‘I have offered you wealth and fame and many other things, but you would not accept me, my lady,’ he said to her. ‘But there is one thing I have forgotten to give you, and I would do so now, if you allow me.’

“The lady nodded, curious. The knight was not her only suitor, but so far none of them have offered what she wanted most.

“The knight came closer. ‘I have but one thing left to give,’ he said. ‘And that is myself.’ And he kneeled before the lady...”

“And laid his heart bare before her?” Blackwall asks, his whisper warm against her ear.

“And laid his heart bare before her,” she confirms. “And she took his hands and bade him stand, because she did not want to see him on his knees nor bowed in supplication. And she accepted him, because he finally gave her what she wanted most, and that was his heart.” She turns in Blackwall’s embrace, to face him, and lays her hand on his chest. His heartbeat quickens under her touch. “And she, in turn, gave her heart to him.”

He puts his hand over hers, pressing her palm to his chest. “And you would have me bear his name?” he asks quietly.

“If you wish to.” She looks into his eyes. “You asked me to find you one...”

“Yes.” He kisses her with so much emotion it is overwhelming. “It’s a good name.” Another kiss, searching, soulful, loving. “As is yours.” And another. “Eiluned. It’s from old Alamarri, yes?”

“Yes. It means ‘image’.”

“Certainly a very beautiful one, in this case.” He brushes his lips across her smile. “Eiluned.” He touches her cheek. “Also means ‘idol’, doesn’t it?” He kisses her again. Passionately. Reverently.

“Stop... Please, stop.”

“Stop what?”

“This! You’re doing this again... I’m no idol. I...” She takes a breath, closes her eyes. “I don’t need to be revered. I just need to be loved.”

“I _do_ love you,” he says ardently. “And I can’t help admiring you. I...” He presses her hand to his chest again. “You have my heart, laid bare before you.”

There are two things she can do now. Continue the talk on the serious note, and that would lead to her trying to tell him how she does not need to be admired, and him probably telling her at some point that he is not worthy, and her denying it, and that would ultimately lead to more tears. Or she can try to steer it all sideways into a jest, and see if they can laugh, and this could end in awkwardness if they cannot, but she would still prefer that to tears.

“Not only heart, from what I see,” she says lightly.

He stares. And then laughs, truly laughs, like he used to before... before. And she laughs, too, and Maker, it feels so good. It is difficult to kiss while they are both smiling, but he certainly does a good job trying.


	10. Chapter 10

He touches her cheek, looking at her face thoughtfully, with the ever-present sorrow in his eyes. “I took the smile from your lips,” he says quietly.

She does not contradict him. It was mainly the weight of the world that did that, but his past had a share in it, too, and she cannot in clear conscience say it was not so. But instead, she can say something that will make things better.

She covers his hand with hers, leaning into his touch. “You can put it back there again.”

He turns his hand and catches hers. “Aye, perhaps I can.” Gently, he brings her hand to his lips, almost smiling, and kisses her fingertips. Then he brushes soft, almost playful kisses along her fingers, then across her knuckles, across every inch of the skin of her palm.

She smiles at him, and his eyes spark to life at that, and her smile widens. In the end she laughs, because his beard and whiskers tickle a little. She reaches up, combing her hand through his hair and curling her fingers around a few strands, pulling him to her for a kiss. When they pull away, they are both smiling.

The past will never go away, and she is not certain it should, and he is certain it should not. And perhaps it is so. It will be a long road, and it will take time before he can find peace, if it is even possible at all. But perhaps - perhaps...

Blackwall embraces her, cradles her in his arms. He is always so gentle and tender with her... Treating her as if she were the most precious thing in the world, which she is not, but when he looks at her like that, she can almost believe she is.

He kisses her softly, touches her cheek, brushes his thumb across it. “You are a moment of peace.”

She has no answer to that. She no longer has answers to what he says to her; she has come to the end of herself, she does not know where she ends and he begins, it is all too tangled up, so tangled it hurts sometimes. And yet she would never give it up.

She kisses him, winding her arms around his neck, shifting closer. Their foreheads touch. Their eyes meet and a thousand words go unsaid because there is no need to speak them.

He holds her close, cradling her head, nuzzles her cheek. “You’re the best that’s ever happened in my life,” he whispers, his breath a trembling exhale against her skin.

She shakes her head. “No.” Her hands move up to cup his face, because she does not know how to deal with it all otherwise than by soft, tender touches, by wordlessly repeating over and over that yes, she loves him. “You are the best that’s happened in your life. And the worst.” A corner of her lips briefly lifts up in a crooked, bittersweet smile. “That’s how it is for most people. We are each our own best friends and worst enemies.” She sighs, closes her eyes for a moment, opens them again and looks at him. “I’m going to say something to you. Please don’t take it the wrong way. Because it’s meant in the best.”

“You’ve never said anything I could have taken the wrong way.”

“It might sound like that. Just know I’m not trying to mock you.” Her hands slips down, and she grips his shoulders tightly. “Since we met, I... There’ve been times I’ve been lost, not knowing what to do, what decision to make. And then I’ve always recalled our talks, and what you’d told me, and it helped.” She takes a deeper breath. “You’ve been my compass. I just wanted you to know that you.. You...” She breaks off, in an attempt to stop the tears. Because, yes, he should remember, but after what he has done just in the Inquisition, after all the lives he has helped save, perhaps he need not hate himself that much? She blinks, but the tears fall, again – so many tears, so many, but perhaps if she cries enough tears they will finally wash away the blood he keeps seeing on his hands, will make him see clearly what she does, that he is a changed man, a good man.

“My lady,” he breaths, then kisses her, first softly, then fervently, as if he could drown in her.

She cannot get any closer to him, but still she tries, wraps her arms around his neck, sinks her hands into his hair. They breathe together, kiss again, shift, trying to get closer, breathe, kiss, breathe, kiss... He lifts her up, carries her to the bed, lays her down on the sheets and she pulls him down with her... And suddenly they stop, look into each other’s eyes.

He gives a startled, somehow embarrassed laugh. “I don’t think that’s the answer we’re looking for...” He moves, attempting to get off her.

She holds him by the shoulders. “It’s the answer we know.” She shifts a little, welcoming his weight, his warmth.

He smiles ruefully. “I’m still such a big mess...”

Perhaps this is something that should not be made light of. It certainly is. But she does not know how to deal with it all but by laughter, because tears alone do not heal.

Smiling, she glides her hands over his back and shoulders, as if sizing him up. “Quite big, yes.”

He looks into her eyes, at her smile, and then something in his gaze changes and he laughs, long and heartily, lowering his head and muffling the sound against her neck. She puts her arms around him and holds him – or perhaps holds herself to him – feeling his laughter vibrating in her chest. It feels good. Everything will get a tad easier once they relearn to laugh again, and they are slowly getting there.

At last he stills, then shifts a little. Nuzzles her neck. Her cheek. “Beloved,” he whispers against her lips, and that one word, ardent and breathless, is enough to undo her.

Her fingers tighten in his hair. “Beloved.”

Neither speaks any more that evening, nothing coherent, at least. But they laugh some more, among other things, and it feels good.


	11. Chapter 11

Next morning, he is changed. He seemed different after his admission of his true identity and after the judgement, after he finally found the courage to face his past, but this is something else. Before, many times, she has looked at him and thought: resolve. Now she can see she has been wrong, because the true resolve is what she can see now.

For the first time, he is not only determined, but calm and certain. The sorrow is still there deep in his eyes, and she doubts it will ever be gone, but he seems... less broody, less grim. As if he finally knew what to do, which way to go.

“I will join the Wardens,” he announces. There is finality in his voice.

She nods. “If you feel this is right. You do, don’t you?”

“Yes.” He steps closer, puts his hands on her waist, holds her. “I’ve been thinking, last night. This is right, for many reasons. My past. The real Warden Blackwall.” He pauses, kisses her cheek, smiling against her skin. “You,” he adds, tenderly. “I want you in my life, lady Eiluned.”

She puts her hands over his. “You don’t need to...”

“Please, let me finish. I want you in my life, and to be part of yours. I want you not to be ashamed of me.”

“I’m not...” she protests.

“Hush, my lady, and let me speak. Wardens have no past. If I visit you at Ostwick, I want you to be able to answer ‘He’s a Warden’ to any questions people might ask. You will know, your family will know, others don’t need to. I don’t want to bring you shame. I don’t want you to have to explain anything. I want you to have an answer.” He pauses again. “And I will say I changed my name to honour the man who died saving me. It’s just part of the truth, but that’s the best I have.”

She turns towards him, cradles his beloved face in her hands, smiles at him. “I will miss you.”

“Ah, I’m not leaving yet, not for some time.” He smiles back at her, and there is a gleam in his eyes. “And I promise you we’ll make the best of it.” He bows his head and kisses her shoulder, as he often does. “I will go back to the Free Marches before I join. I’ve heard the Wardens are going to establish an outpost in the Vimmark Mountains. That’d be closer to Ostwick than Ferelden.”

She tilts her head up to kiss him. They breathe together. “Eideard,” she whispers softly against his lips. He is a new man. He has made himself a new man, a different man. A good man. She blinks back tears, shakes her head – too much emotion, so much that her heart cannot contain it and that is why she cries. “It doesn’t matter. Your name. You’re not you name. You’re you. You’ve made yourself into a new man. A good, honourable man. You...”

Blackwall kisses her.

“I’d rather have a name people won’t ask you about,” he explains, when their lips part. “I have acknowledged the past, I will not forget, but the burden that goes with it should not be yours, and it already is. This needs to end. I’d rather have a name that would not tarnish yours.” And then he touches her cheek tenderly and smiles, and does something she is usually the one to do - jests. “I hope the hour isn’t too inappropriate for bare hearts and other things?”

She does something she has not done for years: she giggles. Like a carefree girl she will never be again, but for a moment he makes her feel like that.

“A little,” she admits, then smiles at him. “But I won’t tell if you won’t?”

She laughs when he picks her up and carries her inside. Perhaps, for once, the world can wait a little.

* * *

 

In the afternoon, she visits the kennels again. She has been debating with herself over that for some time, but there will be no better occasion.

The mabari pup sniffs at her hand curiously, recognises the scent and lets her pet him.

“Good choice, m’lady,” the kennel master says approvingly. “He’ll grow up to be a big boy.”

“Isn’t he too young?”

“Nay, he’s grown enough.” The elderly man couches to scratch the pup behind the ears. “Time to leave mommy and go adventuring, eh? What say ye, boy?”

The pup barks happily.

“He’s Blackwall’s favourite, too. They get on well.” The kennel master smiles. “Good planning on yer part, m’lady.”

She smiles. “Thank you.”

“Ye’re welcome, m’lady.”

She carries the pup across Skyhold, hoping to get him to her rooms quietly. Luckily, the mabari falls asleep against her chest, probably lulled by her heartbeat. She smiles to herself; ah, the two of them are so alike.

When she enters, quietly, making no sound, Blackwall is stretched out on the bed, dozing off, snoring softly. For a moment she stops, just to watch him, his mouth slightly parted, his chest lifting and falling in a steady rhythm of his breaths. He looks peaceful, as he rarely does, no nightmares plaguing his sleep.

He still often wakes up at night, and she never asks what he dreams of, and he never tells, and that is how she knows. Those dreams are his grim reminder. They had a talk once, of Grey Wardens, and when she mentioned the darkspawn nightmares, he said he would welcome them.

On her tiptoes, she comes closer, and carefully lays the sleeping pup on Blackwall’s chest. The mabari moves, jarred awake by the motion, looks around, puzzled, then sniffs at Blackwall’s tunic, recognises the scent and gives a happy little bark.

Blackwall wakes instantly. Blinks. Looks at the pup, which is trying to lick him on the nose, and gently pulls the mabari away.

She looks down at him. “He’s yours,” she says with a smile.

Blackwall blinks again. “But I’m going to join the Wardens...”

“I’ve heard that Wardens sometimes join their hounds.”

Slowly, Blackwall sits up, cautious not to throw the little mabari off the bed. “Thank you.” He smiles briefly. “I’d say this means a lot, but...”

There have been and there are things that mean a lot more. Yes, this is just a part of a bigger pattern, a tiny part, she thinks, sitting next to him. Perhaps it is as necessary as all the others. Or perhaps just a fancy. Or perhaps it does not matter what this is.

He reaches out to her, touches her cheek, leans over, guiding her in for a kiss. The pup barks at them, puzzled.

Blackwall laughs and pats the mabari on the head. “Quiet, boy. Your lady needs a proper thank-you for such a gift, you know?”

“I’ve heard you were friends,” she says with a smile. Which dissolves into a trembling coil of emotion when Blackwall looks at her as understanding dawns on him.

“I’ve always wondered who called him Grit,” he says, his eyes deep and full of those feelings and things they do not really know how to speak about, so they do so by speaking of other matters, and telling stories, and doing things like she has just done.

“I thought it a fitting name,” she explains in a whisper.

He leans over, tangling one hand in her hair, kisses her. They part when the pup starts barking again.

Blackwall eyes the mabari with mock-sternness. “He’s definitely going back to the kennels for the night.”

She laughs. It is a wonderful discovery, knowing that, despite all, they can still have some semblance of happiness.


	12. Chapter 12

“My brother is now a Constable in the Marches.” Cadfan survived, thank the Maker. “He will be the one to welcome you.”

Blackwall smiles briefly. “And to keep an eye on me?”

“And do you feel that necessary, ser?” she asks in a whisper, reaching out to tangle her fingers in his hair. Their time together is running short, and every moment spent apart seems a waste.

“No,” he answers sombrely. “I think that at this point I can keep an eye on myself.” He catches her hand, presses it to his chest, and she feels his heartbeat, steady and strong. “You’ll be here the whole time. Watching.”

She kisses him. He wraps his arm around her, pulls her close, prolongs the kiss.

“Weren’t we supposed to talk, my lady?”

“We are talking,” she whispers against his lips.

He laughs. “The other kind of talking? Like, actual talk?”

She sighs, resting her forehead against his. “I’m sorry. It’s just... There’s so little time left.”

“I’ll come visit you as soon as I can. Unless they transfer me to Anderfels or some other Maker-forgotten place.”

“They won’t.” Ah, she knows he will not like this. This is the second time she abused her power for his sake. Well, this time for her own as well. “I’ve written to Weisshaupt. They better not dare transfer you.”

“My lady, this isn’t...” His hand cradles her face. “Eiluned, are you sure about this?”

“We’ve bloody saved the world, or that’s what people say. So if they want me to be the hero, they’re welcome to, and I’m going to use it, because I’m not losing you again.” She sighs. “Please, don’t argue with me on this.”

He laughs quietly, and there is relief in his laughter, and more, as if some weight has been suddenly lifted from his shoulders. “The most marvellous woman in Thedas has just told me she wants me by her side. I’m not going to argue. No sane man would.” He kisses her cheek soundly. “To the Marches, then. Well, in due time.”

Her hands settle on his shoulders. “Home?” she asks tentatively, because it is a difficult question, for her homecoming will be happy but his will not, but there is more to her words. She is asking him about _them_.

He looks deeply into her eyes. “Home,” he agrees quietly.

Her gown billows in the wind, the embroidered feathers on the hem and sleeves fluttering in the air. But she does not need these wings to fly: her heart soars.


	13. Chapter 13

“Before, I’ve always thought your nightmares were Grey Warden dreams.” She is sleepy, and only after the words are out of her mouth it gets to her what she has just said, and immediately she regrets that.

He sighs heavily. “I told you once I’d have welcomed darkspawn nightmares. I still welcome them.” He shifts and tugs her to him gently, so that they become one complicated landscape of tangled lines and curves. “But there are other dreams, too.” He presses a kiss to the crown of her head. “Good dreams.” He kisses her hair again. “What do you dream of, my lady? Tell me some happy dream,” he asks, in almost exactly the same tone in which he used to ask her to tell him of Ostwick.

She wonders whether she should tell him. How to tell him. How not to frighten him, because Maker, this will certainly be difficult. Gently, she takes his hand. “Us,” she whispers, turning her head, to look into his eyes. She does not know how to put it into words so she uses gestures instead, places his hand over her stomach and holds it there. “Us,” she repeats.

He is stunned. “You really wants this?”

“That’s what I’ve always wanted. A home. A family. A...” she breaks off, not wishing to press him into anything. But they are already bound, so many times, over and over...

“A husband,” he says, somewhat astonished.

She shifts closer to him. “I already have one,” she says with a smile. “It’s just not... official.”

He laughs, still startled. “Maker, my lady, have you just...”

“No. Might have just dropped a few cues, though.” She sighs, turns in his arms. Gently bumps their foreheads together. “Why the disbelief?”

His arms tighten around her. “Sometimes,” he says, burying his face against her neck, “sometimes it feels like it’s all a dream. Very good one, too.”

“It’s better than that. It’s real.” She strokes his hair. Then she sighs. “How are you doing, among the Wardens? I’ve tried asking Cadfan, but he won’t tell me anything about either of you. And I worry.”

“And I will tell you nothing either.” He pulls away, just enough to look at her. “The Wardens fight so that the other would not have to know.” His eyes are scorching in their intensity. “I fight so that you will not have to know. Please, Eiluned, let it be as it is.”

She cannot refuse him, not when he asks her in such a voice, and certainly not when he calls her by her name, which holds so many layers of meaning to both of them. Names... Names are important. Both in the way people seem to think they are and in an entirely different way, too. He has made himself a name, a thought, an ideal, and lived up to it. And should they ever be blessed with a child, she will be able to tell her son or daughter ‘Your father is a hero’. He will remember, always, as will she. But their children, if they ever have them, will not need to know.

So perhaps there are things she does not need to know, either. “Very well,” she agrees. “I won’t ask anymore.”

“All I can tell you, I do. You know that.”

Yes, yes, she knows. Ever since that one lie, he has never lied to her again. All honesty and truth, however harsh.

She shifts again, her back to him, his arm holding her protectively. They lie in silence, awake, his chest solid and warm behind her. He is pretending to be asleep, so that she could fall asleep more easily, but she hears his breathing, and she knows.

“Can’t sleep, too?” she mutters.

“No.” He sighs softly into her hair, and she can hear the thoughts he has to keep hidden from her, can hear them in that tired exhale. “Tell me of this dream of yours, my lady.”

She puts her hand over his. “It’s winter, and outside everything is covered in snow, just enough to make the city look beautiful, but not enough to make the roads impossible to pass. And it’s snowing, those big, fluffy flakes that float in the air. I’m sitting on the furs by the fireside, playing with a child... Last night I dreamt it was a daughter. So, playing with a little girl. She has pigtails, you know. And fair hair. And blue eyes, like her father.

“We’re waiting for him, because he is to visit Ostwick soon. He doesn’t get to do that often, because he’s a Grey Warden, so we miss him a lot. And we’re waiting for him now. She’s sitting in her rocking chair. It’s a griffin, would you guess?

“The door opens and a mabari rushes inside, barking happily. The girl jumps off her rocking chair, because her father is standing on the threshold, fresh out of his armour and with his cheeks still red from the cold, and she runs to him...” she breaks off, because suddenly he shudders behind her, and then she hears a ragged breath, like a dam breaking.

In one swift move she turns towards him, and freezes, because, Maker, the look on his face, in his eyes... It seems almost painful, and there is something deep in his gaze, as if his heart just stopped for a moment, as if his life stopped spinning and came to a still.

“What’s wrong?” she asks softly, concerned.

There is something happening there inside him, in his soul, something important but she does not know what because he does not utter a word. But then she glimpses it in his eyes, just a flash, a wave threatening to crush everything, and she just has to take a leap of faith and risk everything because for some reason _this_ is the turning point.

“Eideard,” she whispers, his assumed name, the name he has asked her to give to him. And then, carefully, tentatively – because if she makes a mistake everything will break like ice and they will both drown – she whispers another name: “Thom.”

He clings to her, hides his face against her neck, and she feels wetness there. She strokes his head and back, and holds him as his body shakes with quiet sobs. His breaths come ragged, as if he was learning how to breathe anew. And she understands he is. She understands that his tears melt Rainier and Blackwall into one man, a new man, still with a shadow of the past over his shoulder, but free to breathe again at last.

Her heart trembles just as his body does. “Beloved,” she whispers, because this is all she can do now, that and holding him as if she were to never let go. She is never going to let go. “Beloved.”

At some point, he kisses her, a long, deep kiss which tastes of tears, but she no longer knows whether those are his or hers. They kiss, they cling to each other until all the lines blur and they drown together, and then together they surface and breathe again.

In the morning, there is no hesitation in his voice when he asks her to marry him. And no hesitation in hers when she gives him her answer.

* * *

 

Half a year later, when he visits Ostwick again to see her, it is snowing, big, fluffy flakes that float in the air. She is sitting beside the fire with some embroidery in her lap, stitching grey feathers across a tiny white dress. The gown she is wearing is wider now, with the curve of her belly visible under the soft wool.

When the door opens, Grit rushes inside, bumping against her legs before she is able to get up. She stands, lets the embroidery fall onto the armchair. Looks at the man standing at the door, fresh out of his armour.

In a few strides he is beside her, kissing her – cold is still radiating off his skin, but his cheeks quickly warm up under her hands. She kisses him back; they cannot get enough kisses, enough of each other, it always feels like that when they meet for the first time after a parting.

And then she puts his hand on her belly and he pulls her to him, holds her. For the second time ever she sees him crying and, as before, she cries with him. But, for the first time, those are good, happy tears.

**Author's Note:**

> /'Amhrán Duit' - Irish Gaelic ~ 'A Song to You';  
> from the Old Irish 'amra', meaning a lament or memorial poem or song/


End file.
